


As You Lay to Die Beside Me

by Lauralot



Series: Daddy Issues [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, alexander pierce should have died slower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Rumlow's going to be living in the Avengers' Tower, Steve will have to learn to live with him.</p><p>But this wasn't quite what he had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, ravenously wrote Brock's perspective and I wrote Steve's.

It’s seven in the morning. A full hour after the time Bucky’s therapists have designated that he should wake up. His breakfast has been sitting on a plate for the past hour, the grease solidified on the bacon and the eggs gone rubbery. He’s not in his own bedroom. He’s certainly not in Steve’s.

And Steve doesn’t bother to ask Jarvis where he is because he knows damn well where Bucky is. The same place he’s spent the majority of every day since Steve lost control of his life and agreed to let a HYDRA agent move into the tower.

Steve grits his teeth, dumping the plates, food and all, into the sink. He can deal with those later. But Bucky can’t skip his pills, especially not after the fiasco of his attempt to protect Rumlow from angry drug dealers.

To protect Rumlow. Steve’s stomach churns at the thought as he walks toward the elevator. It’s not as though he ever forgets the damage HYDRA’s done to Bucky--how could he, when Bucky himself is a reminder every time he cuddles up to Steve and asks for a bedtime story?--but it’s never quite so clear as when he’s standing up for one of his captors.

Steve wonders if Rumlow read the kid a bedtime story last night. He shakes the thought off. It’s not important, no matter how pervasive the curiosity.

\--

It is, for the most part, way too early to be awake. At least, for Brock. But he’s been adjusting, lately, since the kid has demanded sleepovers several times in the past week alone, and the kid doesn’t seem to know how to sleep in later than eight o’clock in the morning, and that’s if Brock _forces_ him to stay the fuck still and sleep.

So he’s blearily nursing a cup of coffee while the kid watches some TV show- Brock made him promise not to play some stupid Disney Channel show, so it’s actually something that could be mildly enjoyable for Brock if he actually cared to pay attention to the screen. Kid clearly loves it, how much energy he’s got, and the way he keeps dancing his bear around in time to whatever music plays.

It’s cute. Nauseatingly cute and more than a little unsettling, but Brock’s been able to ignore the latter, more and more. The personality is still weird as all hell, but he’s getting used to it.

Brock’s _pretty_ sure he wasn’t supposed to just give up on the breakfast he tried to make earlier and tell the AI to bring them a box of donuts, but that’s what happened, and he’s pretty sure the kid ate four of them. Which is probably more sugar than he’s used to, which might actually explain the dancing and bouncing.

At least, if Brock’s internal clock is correct, and Rogers’ doesn’t disappoint, he’ll come to collect his kid soon in a giant, angry huff of wild blond hair gone straight up from constantly running worried fingers through it. Brock _sort of_ lives for the giant glare and frown that’s etched into Rogers’ face whenever he comes to grab Bucky; he finds it hilarious and it stirs _something_ in him.

Brock takes another giant drink of his coffee then leans forward, passing the cup to the kid. “You wanna try? It’s sweet.” Because he might be annoyingly masculine, sometimes, but Brock doesn’t deny himself good tasting coffee, and that just doesn’t happen unless there’s copious amounts of sugar and cream in it.

\--

Steve runs his fingers through his hair as he watches the numbers slide by in the elevator display. Sometimes, when Bucky’s little, he likes pressing every floor option just to watch the buttons light up. It’s never an issue; Jarvis knows to take them to just one floor without stopping at the others. Bucky hasn’t done that in a week. Hell, probably more than a week, but if Steve can’t blame the murders on Rumlow--and for all he hates the man, he has to admit that information given while drugged senseless on morphine isn’t Rumlow’s fault--then he can and will pin every other frustration in his life on the double agent. He’s a bad influence. Sure, he’s not whispering ‘Hail HYDRA’ into Bucky’s ear, Jarvis would alert Steve, but that doesn’t mean he’s good for Bucky.

He doesn’t _know_ Bucky, only the Soldier. And the Soldier’s gone now, except for the rare occasions when the stress becomes too great and he snaps back to the protective shell he thinks he needs to wear to survive.

But that’s not Bucky. That’s what was left when they tried to hollow Bucky out. Bucky is the kid who takes Steve’s coat and waltzes around the living room, humming “Once Upon a Dream.” He’s the one who was introduced to most Disney cartoons as an adult and still hasn’t outgrown them. How is Rumlow’s fragile masculinity going to handle it when the kid wants to play princesses? How will he take it when Bucky inevitably ends up napping there and wetting the couch or the bed?

Rumlow doesn’t know a thing about Bucky Barnes. Not his favorite foods, not the novels he read until the spines broke before HYDRA took the memories of those stories from his head. Not his terrible attempts at life drawing in their college class, and not that beautiful, self-assured smile that Steve hasn’t seen on his face since the forties. And God, what Steve would give to see it again.

The elevator opens and Steve pulls his hand from his hair, stepping out. He’s not stomping. He wouldn’t give Rumlow that satisfaction. And there’s Rumlow, holding out his cup to Bucky, who’s drinking, wide-eyed and practically vibrating with energy. Rumlow looks like he’s smirking, but he always looks that way. Even the burns couldn’t change that.

“Daddy!” Bucky calls out. It’s a wonder he doesn’t spill the cup as he bolts up, passing it back to Rumlow and nearly tackling Steve, arms tight around his waist. “Morning!”

“Good morning,” Steve says. He can smell caffeine on Bucky’s breath, and that should annoy him--Bucky has a metabolism just as fast as Steve’s, but somehow the effects of sugar and caffeine seem to linger in his blood for hours--but as long as Bucky’s eating and drinking, he can’t muster the anger. 

“Glad you’re having fun.”

“Want a doughnut?” Bucky asks. “You can have one, they’re really good.”

That explains the powdered sugar on Bucky’s lips. “I’m all right,” Steve assures him. “Thanks.”

\--

Brock nearly drops the cup himself, it’s thrust back in his arms so fast. But he manages not to let it drop, with just a slight tinge of discomfort in a couple of his muscles from having to move so fast. He takes another drink before he faces Rogers, raising an eyebrow. “Morning to you, too. You know, you could let me know when you’re coming. It’s kind of rude to just barge in here when me and Bucky are watching TV.”

He glances at the kid, who’s practically hanging off of Steve and vibrating, a wide grin on his face that makes Brock’s face split into a small smile, just for a moment. And then he’s looking at Steve again and wiping the soft smile away from his lips in favor of a smirk.

\--

“Sorry about that,” Steve says, lightly and calmly and only because Bucky’s in the room. But Bucky’s glancing back at Rumlow now, not watching Steve’s face, and Steve doesn’t miss the opportunity to glare daggers at the man. He almost feels heat in his eyes from the stare. “Of course, I’ve come down at the same time every morning after he’s slept here, so I guess I assumed you’d realized when he needs to take his meds. I forgot, you must have fallen out of routines when the STRIKE team collapsed.”

He ruffles Bucky’s hair--the kid is _shaking_ with excess energy--giving him a smile that stays fixed on his face as he turns back to Rumlow. “If it’d be more convenient for you, I could just bring his pills down here if he’s spending the nights, but he can’t work out childproof lids when he’s five and your hands probably aren’t the best with pill bottles anymore, huh? Or have you had enough practice?”

“Daddy!” says Bucky, completely oblivious to the tension in the air. His child side does have its benefits. “Daddy, the Commander led Bucky Bear on a mission and we rescued a buncha hostages and then he told me about the time he saved you from pirates and it was so cool!”

“Did he?” Steve asks. “I’m sure that was quite a story.”

\--

Brock’s carefully constructed facial expression threaten to collapse into either a sneer or nothingness, but he refuses to show Rogers even that much. He could argue back, could be cold and cruel and snap at him the way Rogers _expects_ him to, so long as it’s friendly enough around the kid’s ears. But that wouldn’t actually make Rogers mad. Just happy in a way that means he’s _right._

So, no. He just shrugs and says as pleasantly as he can, “Just a knock would be nice.”

He actually would rather Bucky’s pill bottles _never_ be in his floor. Because as much as it would hurt to admit to anyone, even the five year old, he’s weak and not good enough to not want to stare at the pills and _dream_ , wonder and wish for some of his own. He can’t do anymore than the very basics of pain control now that he’s got an all-knowing AI watching his every move and making sure he’s not hoarding pills like a fucking junkie.

The one time he tried, Jarvis figured it out immediately, to the point that Brock wondered if maybe the AI has dealt with someone’s drug addictions before.

\--

“I’ll be sure and let you know,” Steve replies, and even on propaganda tours, his voice hadn’t been this syrupy.

He feels a twinge inside at the unfaltering, clearly forced smile on Rumlow’s face. Maybe it was wrong of him to mention both the _collapse_ of STRIKE and Rumlow’s addiction in the span of under a minute. Hell, of course it was. Rumlow’s got nothing left now. A roof over his head, sure, a really nice one, and his every need attended to, but Steve knows what they say about gilded cages. Rumlow’s a prisoner. All his friends are dead or locked up. And all he has left is Bucky’s Stockholm syndrome to provide him with company.

But Steve can’t bring himself to feel more than that twinge. Rumlow would have happily seen him and twenty million others dead and buried.

“Bucky,” he says, and whatever rambling explanation Bucky was giving of the show they’ve been watching fails silent. “Why don’t we go up to my room so you can take your medicine on the next commercial break, okay? Then you can finish watching it upstairs, and after that, you can decide what you want to do today.”

He already knows what Bucky wants to do. What he’s wanted to do all week: spend his time with Rumlow. Like a real child with a shiny new toy. But maybe Steve can coax him into the gym today, burn off some of that energy.

“‘Kay,” Bucky says, and just like that he’s squirming out of Steve’s embrace, settling back down before the TV. He makes the Bucky Bear dance along with the show’s audio track.

\--

Brock watches after Bucky for a few moments, and then focuses back on Steve. Oh, oh but he’d love to continue this lovely conversation they’re having ‘till the death, but, no, not really. He’d prefer to shove his face into the pot of coffee in his kitchen and let it burn the rest of his fucking face off. He almost says as much, too, but the last time he actually _tried_ to respond, he and Steve argued for _hours_ and eventually Brock’s limbs grew weary of standing and his voice became raspy. Not fun.

And it’s not like Steve doesn’t have a right to-

No. Not going there. He’s not going to think about guilt and consequences when Rogers is standing right in front of him, staring at him and looking for weaknesses like some All-American _wolf._

He’s caught up in his thinking for a couple minutes, but he eventually blinks and waves a hand towards the couch. “You wanna sit? Coffee? I mean, you pretty much own the floor anyways, make yourself at home.”

\--

“Wouldn’t want to do that,” Steve says softly, but he does take a seat. This is stupid, he knows, but he’s never claimed to be smart. Whether Bucky’s five or ninety-five, he’s not an _idiot_. Children can pick up on tense atmospheres far better than they’re given credit for. Bucky’s going to notice their anger sooner or later--probably once his sugar rush wears off--and then there’s going to be pouting and sniffling. And an ocean’s worth of self-blame.

Much as it can hurt to see Bucky clinging to a teddy bear like’s it a living, breathing friend, he’d prefer it if the kid keep dancing with his bear instead of finding new reasons to hate himself.

But Steve’s always been stubborn. It’s in the Irish blood, his mother would say. So he can’t bring himself to smile, to relax as he settles down.

\--

Brock just grunts and leaves the room, goes to the kitchen to refill his mug with more coffee. Between the morning coffee and whatever energy drinks he can get his hands on, it’s basically the only reason he’s awake these days, especially on the days he’d rather sleep for four days straight.

He drinks and leans against the counter softly and tries to pretend that Rogers isn’t in his living room acting, as usual, morally high and mighty and judgmental on his every facet of life. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, the shit he says to Brock, but the tension and the atmosphere that Steve brings with him is enough to exhaust him in minutes, make him want to lay down.

Brock can deal with the _words_ , and he can return them, but it’s the looks that are a little harder to escape from. He deserves it, he knows he does, he _knows_ , but there’s his pride to think about, who screams that he deserves nothing of the sort, he doesn’t deserve to be treated like the scum of the earth when he’s already been _through so much shit._

But he hasn’t. Not as much as he should have gone through. He sighs into his cup and glances at the living room, and feels the involuntary tug on his lips, humorless as it is, as the kid waves his bear around again.

If Rogers is going to act like a dick, Brock’ll just have to act dismissive and ignore it as much as he can. Might piss Rogers off even more, it might turn into Brock exploding one day, but. Oh well.

\--

The show goes to commercial, and the way Bucky keeps moving his bear, trying to block the screen with its body, is painfully obvious. Steve pointedly does not think about Bucky as a sniper in the war, so quick, so well-concealed, and dangerous. Instead, he gets to his feet. “Come on, Bucky.”

“But _Daddy,_ ” Bucky says. That’s one thing the kid has in common with the man he used to know. They both have the same puppy dog eyes.

“You know the medicine works best if you take it at the same time every day,” Steve says gently. And how it kills him that Bucky needs to take a small pharmacy’s worth of drugs every morning to function. To keep from believing that HYDRA’s snaking through the walls along with Jarvis, to convince him that there’s still blood flowing in his body. Steve hates that Bucky has the strongest medications and the best therapists and he’s still prisoner to Pierce’s sick orders.

But he can’t let that show, not for a second, or it’ll make Bucky even worse.

“Kay,” Bucky mumbles, shuffling toward him. He’s still gently rocking the bear from side to side, but the heart’s gone out of his movements.

“Thanks for watching him,” Steve says, not bothering to face Rumlow as he leads Bucky to the elevator. Bucky’s going to want to come right back, he knows, but in the meantime Rumlow can do...whatever it is that Rumlow does. It’s no concern of his.

\--

Brock gives a grunt in response to Steve and says, “Thanks for hanging out, kid,” as they leave. He might be trying to not cause a small nuclear explosion with Rogers, but he’s gotta be nice to the kid at least. He. He kinda likes the kid, and enjoys when he comes knocking on his door wanting to play.

One thing that he _doesn’t_ like is that it is nearly impossible to sleep when the kid comes over, and so as soon as they leave, he finishes his coffee and lays the fuck down, even if it’ll be a while until he can sleep, because of the caffeine flowing through his body.

\--

It’s like clockwork. Bucky swallows the last of the pills, and the first words out of his mouth are “Can we go see the Commander again, Daddy, can we please?”

“Didn’t you want to finish your show?” Steve asks. “Bucky Bear looked like he was having fun.”

Bucky seems to consider this. “But the Commander might wanna finish it too.”

“He can do that if he wants to.” He wonders if that’s the whole of Rumlow’s life now: pain, television, and sleep. It sounds like hell. A hell that Rumlow brought upon himself, but even so…

“But he might have other things to do, Bucky,” Steve continues. “Like how Tony does science and Pepper runs a company. So maybe we should give him some time to get things done, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, but he’s pouting.

“We could play in the gym?” Sparring Bucky has become one of his favorite pastimes, and he should feel shame for that, should feel sick and wrong, but he can’t help himself. It’s a chance to be near Bucky without frightening him, without speaking, all their worries gone for those fevered moments on the mats. Steve can never indulge the desires he’s felt since before he even knew the names for his feelings, but this isn’t that. It’s just a way to be close, as close as they’ll ever be.

And if Bucky pushes himself hard enough in sparring, he’ll sometimes fall asleep afterward. In his sleep, if there are no nightmares, Bucky smiles. Safe and content, far from the lifetime of traumas he’s suffered. Steve wishes he could smile that way all the time.

“Okay, Daddy.”

\--

Sleeping is precious these days, and lately, naps are the only time he can actually get any sleep. It’s too difficult to sleep well when the kid is around, even if he knows, logically, that the kid is out like a light. It’s not the kid he’s afraid of- Brock’s not afraid of anything.

But sleeping next to a ninety year old man with the mental facilities of a five year old, Brock almost always feels the slow vine creepers of guilt unfurling in his mind, reaching to even the most distant places of his mind. It’s more than enough to not cry when his head gets like that, let alone actually _sleep well._ So naps. But he can’t spend the rest of his life napping, even if it’s just to catch up on the sleep his body and mind denied him before. He used to keep an extremely active lifestyle, and even now, it makes him feel unused and worthless if he can’t do _something_ with his day.

He sits up in bed and asks the AI what there is to _do_ around this godforsaken Tower, that’s actually allowed to do. The majority of the floors here are restricted to him, and he has to fucking _ask_ to be allowed outside. Like he’s some fucking kid.

The AI suggest reading, or watching television or the gym or helping Mister Stark in his lab. And, yeah, the gym. That’s nice. That’s fine. That’s. That’s doing something purposeful with his body. Besides, he bets the Tower has the best fucking gym in the country.

He pulls on some proper clothes and gets ready to go. Maybe he can take out his life’s frustrations with a punching bag.

\--

Sparring Bucky used to be asking for broken bones.

He couldn’t differentiate between a friendly match and an assessment of his skills. There weren’t relaxed games in HYDRA, not for the Winter Soldier. Everything was a test. Any failure would bring pain. And Bucky had, in the early days, regarded Steve as a handler. He could not underperform for him, even if it meant hurting him.

Steve might have died during that first sparring match if he hadn’t thought to explain the concept of tapping out before they began. Even then, Bucky had managed to dislocate Steve’s elbow before he had the chance to do that.

The worst thing wasn’t the way Bucky would snap wrists or break knuckles--his own, sometimes, if he felt it would do more damage to his opponent--as easily as he’d pull his hair back. The worst was the aftermath, when he’d stare blankly and ask if he had performed within parameters. Or worse, when he’d survey Steve’s bruises and calmly kneel down, awaiting punishment.

And then there was the day Steve had hauled himself up from the mats to find the _kid_ staring back at him, trembling. “Daddy, did I hurt you?”

Natasha put a stop to it all. She dragged Bucky to the gym with her one day, and whatever happened, she promised Steve she’d convinced Bucky to dial it back to ninety percent.

It’s amazing, how much of a handful even ninety percent can be.

But Steve manages, knocking Bucky to his feet. Bucky’s giggling as he falls, and Steve knows that means he can pin him down without causing a panic. So he does, hands clamped onto Bucky’s wrists, weight on his shoulders. “You surrender?”

Bucky smiles, wide and mischievous and so familiar. “Never,” he says, and then there’s a blur of motion and Steve’s pinned beneath _him._

He laughs, totally content. And that’s when the elevator opens.

\--

Brock steps out and immediately feels like turning around and going back upstairs to his room. Maybe lay down a bit. Maybe sleep a few more hours. He _really_ doesn’t want to have to deal with this- Bucky isn’t even the _kid_.

He understands the Soldier, he sort of understands the kid. But the man? Bucky Barnes? Is a cruel enigma, someone that Brock isn’t supposed to know. Someone that hates his guts for good reason, since Brock contributed to keeping the man pushed down underneath orders and pain.

He sighs and glances around, going to one of the benches to start strapping on his shoes. Leaving would make them laugh, snigger behind his back, and Brock’s pride is still big enough to shudder away from that thought. But neither does he want to actually. Actually _talk_ to them, especially Bucky.

\--

Steve can feel Bucky tensing up above him, and just like that, his friend is rolling off. The smile remains on his face, but guarded now. Almost mocking.

He sighs internally. Now that Bucky’s seen Rumlow, Steve won’t get him to relax that way again. How can he, around the man who used to judge his performance and likely inflicted pain if it wasn’t up to par? Steve knows already that Bucky isn’t leaving; he’d consider it a display of weakness, one he can’t afford. But he isn’t going to really smile again, and the knowledge of all that HYDRA’s done will be hanging over their heads the entire time they’re here, and probably all day.

And if it was just wary hatefulness that Bucky eyed Rumlow with, Steve could accept that. But that’s not the only thing he can read in his friend’s movements.

Bucky’s always been a showoff, particularly in front of girls. This is similar, though the end goal is different. It’s like he wants to impress Brock even though he’s not the asset. He wants him to know he’s still worthy, craves--what, his acceptance? His fear?

“Hey, old timer,” Bucky says casually.

\--

Brock glances up and finishes lacing up his shoes. “I’m pretty sure I’m only ten years older than you. Max.” He shrugs as he stands, his movements tense and painful- It’s going to be hard to loosen his limbs up naturally, but with how tense he is now? Nearly impossible.

For the thousandth time, he curses his tight and burned body for being a piece of fucking _shit._

He looks around the gym, assessing what there is and what his body can still do. It’s been a while, more than a year, since he’s been to a proper gym, not since he got his injuries. He’s not sure what machines are too much for his body anymore.

\--

“Technically, we’ve both got, what, fifty years on you?” Bucky shrugs. “Whippersnapper.”

“Bucky,” Steve says. He won’t grit his teeth. His wish of going from chronically sickly and small to near super-human came true. Why can’t his wish for Brock Rumlow to disappear? That has to be easier for the universe to accommodate. “What do you want to do now? Want me to spot you?”

“Nah.” Bucky hasn’t looked at him, gazing in Rumlow’s direction without quite staring. “I’m fine here.”

Steve braces himself. He knows what that means. They won’t be at ninety percent anymore, not with Bucky in a mood like this. _Look what I can do, Commander._ This is going to hurt.

“All right,” he says, standing up.

\--

He tries to ignore them. Both of them, even if it’s hard. Tries to ignore them, tries to go over to the machinery and away from the sparring mats and tries to focus on _himself._ That’s what this is for, after all, this visit. To work on his own body and try and ignore the shit and scum of his life, of his mind and thoughts.

But look. It’s pretty damn hard to focus on just himself when Steve fucking Rogers is sweaty and wrestling like a well-oiled machine twenty feet away from him. Holding his own against the Winter Soldier, and Brock knows how well he works fucking intimately. So. Forgive him if he looks over at them occasionally.

\--

Bucky comes at him, a flurry of punches and kicks, with such ferocity that for a second, Steve feels transported back to that godforsaken street in DC.

He just defends at first, assessing Bucky’s form, letting him prove whatever it is that he wants to prove. But he knows it’ll hurt Bucky if he won’t fight back, make him think that Steve doesn’t trust him to know his own mind and stop the fight before it gets fatal. He can’t hurt Bucky, even if it means opening himself to more pain. Besides, if he blocks many more hits with his forearm, he’s going to risk fractures.

So he strikes back. It’s brutal. There’s no fun to be had in it, no good-natured grappling. Steve tries to give as good as he gets, but he’s hampered by his reluctance to hurt Bucky, even in sport. It’s the smallest hesitation, but Bucky grabs hold of it, sniffing it out as he’s been trained, and finally Steve ends up pinned to the mat, bruised and battered, Bucky’s metal arm shoving down on his throat.

Bucky sits back. He smiles, but it’s not at Steve. “Like what you see, Rumlow?”

\--

“Congratulations.” Brock says dryly, turning to face the two of them fully, eyeing down Bucky’s metal arm. It’s easy, almost. Easy to move back into a proud, tall disposition. Like he isn’t some broken, burned old man with nothing left in his life. Easy to go back to a sharp serpent's tongue, because clearly being nice to _Bucky_ isn’t going to work.

“You know how to do what you were trained for. Have you ever almost killed him? Have you ever thought he was your mission? You used to get confused, sometimes, you know.” The low, mean tones feel good, feel wonderful, even if it’s wrong, rude, what he’s been trying _not_ to do.

\--

Bucky’s not smiling now.

Steve knows exactly what he’s remembering; at least, he _prays_ he does. He doesn’t want to consider the possibility that Bucky’s confused him for a target more than once since he’s come here. Not right now. That damn night when Bucky had forgotten the knives he’d been stockpiling, when he’d thought he was HYDRA’s again, that was bad enough. And Steve had stood there, calmly as he could, while the Winter Soldier stared at him with blank, wild eyes and pressed a knife to his throat.

It pains him to think about it. Judging by the way Bucky’s face falls, it’s almost killing him to remember now.

And serum or not, if Rumlow weren’t so injured, if the kid wouldn’t cry for weeks, Steve would tear him limb from limb for making Bucky look that way.

“Bucky,” he says softly. “Why don’t you grab a shower while I talk to Rumlow?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky insists, looking anything but.

\--

“Oh, we need to have a talk now, is that so? Can’t say it in front of him?” Brock snorts and looks away and tries to pretend like he hasn’t shut away all his emotions to be this again. Wishes he had a bottle of Jack right now, or maybe a bottle of pills, to wash away the tumultuous ocean that’s sitting just under his breast, waiting to explode outwards.

\--

Steve doesn’t say _I can, I just don’t want to expose him to any more violence if I can avoid it._ He doesn’t say, _If he sees me with my hands around your throat, he’d attack you as a threat._ It might make Rumlow’s face go as pale as the scarring will allow, or at least make him stress over the possibility that he isn’t the only one here who can command the Winter Soldier, but he won’t say those things in front of Bucky. Won’t let him think Steve views him as broken. As a _thing._

So he doesn’t rise to the bait. He just says “Please, Bucky,” and hopes that will be enough.

It isn’t. “No,” Bucky insists. “I’m _fine_. You always said you could stand up for yourself--well, so can I.”

“Fine. We’ll go, then.” And Rumlow’s going to come with him, even if Steve has to drag him into that elevator. It’s not like the man can fight him off.

“You’re leaving? What happened to our talk?” Rumlow asks, his smirk brightening for just a moment.

Steve knows he must walk over to Rumlow to grab him by the arm, but he has no memory of that. He’s just _there_ , barely cognizant of making sure his hold isn’t tight enough to snap Rumlow’s bones. “We’re having it,” he says, as pleasantly as he can through clenched teeth, starting for the elevator. Rumlow can follow or his arm can be wrenched from the socket. “Right now. _We’re_ leaving.”

“Fuck you both,” Bucky mutters.


	2. Chapter 2

Brock gives a chorus that sounds similar to Bucky’s: “Fuck you Rogers, you can’t fucking just pull me across the fucking gym, fucking let _go_ you piece of shit bastard, let _go_!” Even if he knows it’s literally useless to argue, to waste his breath, especially when Rogers’ grip is so fucking tight on him that to struggle would just be a detriment to Brock’s already subpar health.

He still goes, though. He has no choice. Fuck his life.

\--

Steve doesn’t respond until after the elevator doors slide together behind them. He lets go all right, with enough force that Rumlow’s shoulders bump against the back wall when Steve releases him. He pounds his hand against the ‘door close’ button, vaguely thankful that the panel doesn’t crack from the force. Jarvis won’t move them until Steve selects a floor.

And he’s not about to do that until he’s had his say. He knows it’s wrong to threaten Rumlow like this, trapped in an enclosed space with an infuriated super soldier, but he can’t bring himself to care. He moves forward, hands banging against the wall on either side of Rumlow, effectively pinning him in place.

“Listen,” he says, and the steadiness of his voice surprises him. It sounds almost pleasant. It’s anything but; it’s a promise of pain. “I kept you out of jail because I needed you to save Bucky. I don’t need you anymore. The only reason you’re here is because you fucked with his head to the point that he needs you, and I’ll tolerate your presence for his sake. But if you ever hurt him again, ever make him _doubt_ himself again, then I don’t care what you’ve made him think you mean to him. You’ll end up rotting in a cell or worse.”

\--

Brock stares at Steve and pushes down any of his _thoughts,_ keeps him mind solely on the words, the threat. He’s got to. He’s gotten good at ignoring _Steve_ , his presence, since they started working together, and he can do it now.

“Just because you want to coddle him, doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore the elephant in the room. Especially when he’s being a dick. Or, I’m sorry, are we supposed to treat him like a child all the time?” He gives Rogers a look that should be followed with spit, angry and disrespectful all at once.

\--

“He’s aware of what he is. What he’s capable of. We all are. You don’t have to throw it in his face.” Steve could tear out Rumlow’s throat with his teeth right now, he honestly could. For Bucky. For all the lies Rumlow told him, smiling, when they worked together. But he swallows it back. Rumlow’s not worth it.

“Did all the fire damage your brain?” he spits bitterly. “He wasn’t _mocking_ you, you idiot, he was--”

He cuts off, shaking his head. Like he’s going to spell out to Rumlow that Bucky’s desperate for his approval. Like he’d ever give him that sort of power when Steve’s already angry enough to be quaking with rage.

\--

“Oh, right, I’m sorry, I forgot that I’m only here because of your good, pretty graces. Gotta keep in line or I’ll go to scary _prison_.” He snorts and lets his head fall back against the elevator wall, shaking his head bitterly. “I don’t fucking _care_ where I go. Prisoner anyways. But good luck telling the kid you sent his precious Commander to the world of murderers and rapists.”

His tone is bitter. He doesn’t care. He _belongs_ in fucking prison. Brock may’ve been desperate to stay out before, but now he knows. It’s not different in or out and at least inside prison, he won’t have the opportunity of freedom to go out and do more. In his small apartments, he had the ability and didn’t anyways, and that’s when the guilt creeps in.

\--

“Whose fault is it that you belong in a prison?”

Steve could say more. He could say that Rumlow’s a murderer. That he knew Bucky was assaulted and brought him right back to his abuser. That the things he allowed Bucky to suffer in that chair were violating as any rape. But he doesn’t. He just slams the button on the elevator that leads to Rumlow’s floor. He’s sick of the sight of him.

“You’re only here because of Bucky. You’ll never be in my graces.”

\--

“I’m perfectly aware that you won’t be forgiving me anytime soon.” He doesn’t deserve it. He would never deserve Steve’s graces or acceptance. “No need to remind me. My saving grace is a five year old.” His face is as blank as he can manage it. Which isn’t much, not really.

\--

“Your saving grace is Stockholm syndrome.” He doesn’t mean to speak. Whatever the next words out of Rumlow’s mouth are, he’s so wound up that this can only come to blows between them. But he can’t help himself, can’t _stand_ to watch Rumlow play along with the mindset that HYDRA’s abuse created.

He tries to breathe, tries to step back, but his feet may as well be nailed to the floor. One more push and he’s going to tear Rumlow’s throat out. Right here in the elevator, right outside the room where Bucky’s probably still fuming. Tony’ll be just thrilled about that.

\--

“Think I don’t fucking know that? The kid’s a fucking nightmare, and he’s the only reason I’m _not_ rotting away in some state prison. Thanks for the reminder, though, I hadn’t thought about that seven times already today.” Brock practically spits it in Steve’s face, rage flying to his cheeks, at much as they can. The skin burns, almost, and he takes solace in that.

\--

How dare he? He dare he imply that his guilt is anything close to a penance, a fitting punishment? How could he think that absolves him at all?

And Steve’s lashing out, but his teeth don’t connect to Rumlow’s throat. He’s not trying to bite, really, not trying _anything_ , but he has to strike out and he can’t move his hands from where they are, braced against the wall, without beating Rumlow’s head into a fine paste.

And Rumlow’s lip winds up caught between his teeth. He doesn’t know if he draws blood. He has the presence of mind to open his jaws before he can taste any, at least. But his mouth is still there, shoved violently against Rumlow’s lips, teeth clicking together. He _pushes_ at him with his own mouth, as though he can shove Rumlow’s head through the wall. As though all the rage, bitterness, and regret, the whole mess of emotions roiling inside him, can be purged through his lips and forced into Rumlow.

“You deserve it,” he mutters, still not fucking moving. “You deserve all the pain and guilt you feel, and then some.”

\--

Brock immediately freezes, his eyes flying wide open and staring at Steve’s face, staring at the violent blue of his eyes, the danger and predatory stance he has with every fucking movement of his body. He’s frozen because Steve is _kissing_ him, even if it’s harsh and cruel and hurts, blood leaking weakly out of his lips.

It’s all he can do to open his mouth and _accept_ it, finally getting himself moving, pushing forward, pushing against him, pushing pushing _pushing_ , not to get Steve away, but to make the kiss more, to make it more and more and more.

Of course Brock fucking deserves it all. He does. He deserves the pain and the horror because he’s been a despicable human being who’s needed orders to understand how the world works for years. He deserves anything that happens to him, so long as it’s painful, because he’s caused countless pain.

He’s caused pain to the man currently viciously licking and biting into his mouth, and he knows he deserves whatever Steve does to him, should sit passive, but he can’t, he wants he _wants_ and he fucking _hates every moment of his fucking existence,_ so he’s just as violent back.

\--

And the elevator door opens.

And there’s Brock’s floor, the box of doughnuts still sitting on the table.

Steve pulls away as violently as he rushed in, breathing uneven. His lips feel swollen, even though they were--they were--it was a minute at best.

He wants to be sick. He just forced himself onto Rumlow. _Rumlow_. It doesn’t matter, all the evil that the man’s done. It doesn’t matter how Steve once thought they were close friends, how he’d fallen so easily into banter with Rumlow on missions, almost like he was back with Bucky, how he used to be able to see the man’s smile and smile himself.

It’s wrong. And it’s _repulsive_. He wants nothing to do with Rumlow now that Steve knows what he really is. He wants to be sick, but he can’t even bring himself to wipe at his mouth. He just stands, frozen. Horrified.

\--

Brock lets out a shaky breath, eyes wide and dilated slightly, dark and heavy and his lips buzzing with the contact that Steve was giving them. More feeling than he’s used to, his entire body alight in ways he hasn’t been since before the burns. He wants more. He wants to run.

The primary feeling is just _anger_ though, anger at Steve for making him feel like this, even now after so much fucking shit has happened. He hates this, he’s pissed and hates Steve and _fuck_ he wants more.

\--

“I--” Steve falters. What the hell can he say? How do you apologize to someone you’ve assaulted? Let alone when your blood is still boiling with anger toward them? He wants to tear the lips from Rumlow’s face as much as he’d wanted to touch them once, as much as he wants to run.

“I--” He just stands there, stammering, the way he used to at the start of an asthma attack, but with far more hatred.

\--

“Fuck your words.” Brock spits and pushes forward again. If Steve’ll never let this happen again, then he’s taking out his anger and kissing him as much as he fucking can right now. Fuck whatever Steve wants to say. He licks across his lips, where his own blood is tainted, across the pale skin, and he breathes deep, thinks deep, does anything except to pull away and stop this because he _wants_ it, in every way possible, has for a while, and the hatred boiling in his ears, in his heart, just makes it better.

\--

Somehow, they wind up out of the elevator. Steve can’t say how it happened: one second they’re there, Brock pinning him back against the wall--as if Rumlow could ever really pin him as if Steve would let him if he weren’t frozen with shock and hatred--and the next there’s something pressing against the small of his back and he realizes it’s the kitchen counter.

It’s not a kiss. It’s as much a struggle for dominance as his spar with Bucky was. Those moments in the gym feel almost dreamlike now, like they can’t occupy the same reality where _this_ is happening.

“I hate you,” Steve murmurs against Rumlow’s lips whenever there’s the faintest pause in the struggle. “You traitorous bastard, I hate you.”

\--

“I hate you too.” Brock spits, always, every time Steve says it. It’s true. It’s a lie. It’s the direct companion to his life, full of hatred and pride and vague interests. He loves Steve and hates him in equal measures, pushing and pushing against him in this struggle. He doesn’t care if Steve wins; he’d welcome it, actually, love it, but he won’t quit fighting, won’t stop trying to gain the upper hand in whatever sort of spar _this_ is.

\--

Steve becomes slowly aware that his knuckles are white around Brock’s arms. He has to be hurting him; it would hurt an ordinary man even without the burns. And he wants to hurt him so badly, to leave him as a pile of broken, bloodied pieces scattered across the floor where Bucky had so recently been sitting, so damn _happy_.

But Brock wants to hurt him, wants to fight back. He can feel it in the man’s movements, as desperate and eager as his own. And Steve, for all his hatred, won’t give him that satisfaction. He couldn’t live with himself if he did, anyway. He’s supposed to know the value of strength.

And so Steve softens his grip, stomps down the anger bubbling out of him and kisses Brock as he would a lover. He hopes it stings.

\--

The…. It’s not tender, it’s still rough, but. It’s not the violence they’ve been doing, it’s softer, fragile, and it makes Brock flinch back, eyes full of anger and hatred and _confusion_ at the sudden movement. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why Steve would kiss him like _that,_ but then he sees the look in his eyes and he grins against his lips and softens himself.

Steve’s playing soft, playing the lover. He can play back, then, can kiss him tenderly, like he loves him, like he doesn’t hate every damn cell in his fucking super-powered body. No more biting and scratching, just holding him, kissing back like he wants to _be_ him, and it’s. Not hard to do. Not hard to kiss him like he loves him.

It worries him.

\--

It’s all wrong. He has to focus on that to keep from losing himself in the sensation. He can’t think of how he used to look at Brock and _wonder_ , used to look at Bucky…

He can’t, no matter how aching he is with the longing, allow his eyes to shut and imagine that it’s Bucky here.

He has to make Rumlow furious again, visibly so. Otherwise he’s just as exposed, just as used. So he smiles against Rumlow’s lips, coldly. “That’s all you can do, isn’t it?” He lets his tongue slip into Rumlow’s mouth, drawing back, muttering again. “Imitate. Follow. Never good enough to be what I was. Never a leader, just a pawn in HYDRA’s scheme. Couldn’t even rescue Bucky. And where did it lead you, your loyalty? Where did it take your team?”

\--

“Jumping headlong into danger help Bucky, too? Seems like it hurried his ‘death.’” Brock sneers and tries not to flinch back, pushes those feelings and twists them into more anger. “Or were we pretending that Bucky didn’t stay in Europe just to follow after your ass?”

Brock tries not to think, think about Steve’s words, tries to forget them, tries to push them down, deep into his heart for later because _fuck_ but he doesn’t want to think about that shit right now, right against Steve and nearly fucking hard.

\--

Steve acts on reflex, slamming Rumlow into--a doorway? They’ve reached a doorway. Not like it matters; Steve hasn’t looked around once. Why would he, at a time like this?

But he recovers. He’s grown accustomed, over the years, to burying his feelings. First the propaganda tours, and then waking up in a world where he was a legend, reporters asking his opinions on policies he’d never even heard of while all the losses were still fresh in his mind.

Steve just smiles. It probably even looks genuine.

“And you think--” He can’t bring himself to say Rollins, even knowing the devastation it would have. He can’t make himself that cruel. But he can force out, “You know _he_ was just following you.” And they both know he doesn’t mean Bucky.

\--

Brock’s face freezes, his mind stopping, gears slowing down and crawling to a snail’s pace of time. How dare he. How fucking _dare_ he. He wants to scream at Steve to leave his apartment, wants to punch him, wants to shoot him and rip him apart, wants to falls and cry and never get up because how _dare_ he.

Instead, he pushes forward, for another violent kiss that mimics the first one Steve gave him- unrelenting and probably breaks the skin of Steve’s lips. In between bites, vicious kisses, he hisses, over and over, over and over, “I fucking _hate_ you, how fucking _dare_ you.” A litany of his anger, pressed into Steve’s lips so hard they’ll bruise, actually bruise the super soldier.

\--

And Steve--Steve just takes it.

He stands there, lips bleeding, and allows Rumlow to manhandle him, lets himself be moved even though they both know that, if he wanted, he’d be still and impassable as a mountain. But instead, he lets Rumlow push him, still gently smiling when Rumlow’s teeth aren’t digging into his lips.

He _wants_ it, this rage. He wants Rumlow to spill it out, wants to watch his face fall as he realizes the impotency of his hatred. He has _nothing_. Nothing left for him, and no way to tear down a super soldier. What would hell be without awareness?

So he lets Rumlow lead, his words spilling over Steve like a tide, until he’s brushing up against another object. This time, it’s a bed.

\--

He hates Steve and he hates himself, hates his fucking life and hates that Steve is letting this happen, isn’t pushing back, is being passive and ‘weak’ just to let Brock do this.

He pushes him. Pushes him back against the bed and growls and the sudden change in how he’s standing wreaks _havoc_ on his limbs but it doesn’t matter. He welcomes the pain. He welcomes it and loves it and wants to inflict it as much as he wants to be red and bloody and raw himself.

\--

Steve would like to say that he lost control of himself when he fell against the bed. That everything became blurred by rage and he didn’t know what happened after he ended up on the mattress.

But that’s not true. He’s seeing red, sure, but he’s perfectly aware of his actions as he drags Rumlow down beside him, kissing again, rough and gentle and with a _passion_ he doesn’t try to hide. He hasn’t--not since he woke up from the ice--not with _anyone_. Even alone, his mind calls up Peggy and Bucky and he just, too often, _can’t_.

But he’s aching now, finally biting back at Rumlow’s lips, and he isn’t even sure who he’s thinking of. Brock’s laugh, before Steve knew he was a traitor. Bucky’s arm around him, pulling him close as they walked the streets of Brooklyn. It doesn’t matter. He just needs with a fervor he’s never allowed himself.

He’s tugging at someone’s shirt, unsure if it’s Brock’s or his own.

\--

God, god but this is- This is what Brock’s been wanting for a year. For. For as long as he’s known Steve, actually. He’s seeing red, and blond and that part must be Steve’s hair, where his hand is fisted in. He knows his hips are moving at this point but he stops when Steve starts taking his shirt off. His world is nothing but swollen, blood lips, hands in Steve’s hair and Steve’s hands on _him_. It’s incredible. It’s all he needs and he growls that he can’t touch Steve while his shirt is being taken off.

“Fuck, fuck _you._ ” He snarls, and it’s literal and figurative all at once, and he hates and loves and feels passion deep inside; passion isn’t just love, after all.

\--

“You don’t get to fuck _me_ ,” Steve says, and he can’t even place the emotion in his words, whether it’s lust or rage. Or hell, even horror. This is horrifying, what he’s doing. It can never be undone.

But the parts of him that are horrified are vastly overshadowed by the parts that really want to come.

And then the shirt’s off, and the exposure, the reality, is even greater. But where his mind should be screaming for him to stop this, there’s only silence and the buzzing of his blood.

\--

Brock doesn’t go around without his clothes on. At one point, he may have been confident with himself, may have been perhaps slightly likely to drunkenly take off his shirt; he was, at least, confident in bed. But now? Covered in scars and stiff in ways that make him appear uncomfortable and tense at all times, even when he’s perfectly relaxed?

There’s definitely multiple reasons why he hasn’t slept with anyone since the burns. And his body being the way it is is absolutely one of them.

And yet, being naked and exposed in front of Steve, with the mindset that he’s in right now, he doesn’t even _think_ about it. Doesn’t think about how he should be uncomfortable and would be if he weren’t so pissed, so horny so _needy_ and wanting.

He hurts, from being man-handled so much, and he wants _more_. And then Steve says those _words_ and he feels a full body shudder that leaves his burned neurons tingling in strange ways, and he leans forward and hisses, “Then fuck _me._ ”

\--

And Steve’s about to. His hands have already found the waistband of his own sweats, tugging them down on his hips, when he falters.

It’s a look in Rumlow’s eyes, barely there for a second. But it lingers long enough for Steve to catch a glimpse. Brock’s shirt comes off and his eyes just flick down to his own body. Steve’s gaze follows.

And there the scars are, vivid and red. He doesn’t know how he missed them at first, beyond distraction from the ache in his groin. They’re unmistakable. Steve’s seen burn victims before, had an idea of what Rumlow must look like under his clothes and careful body language, but this is the first that he’s seen of the full extent of the damage.

He stops. It’s not repulsion. Bucky’s scars are just as thick and agitated, and Steve’s never flinched from those. But the scars don’t cover Bucky’s body and Steve doesn’t pound him into a mattress, either. What if it hurts? What if it hurts beyond what Brock can take?

_Why should you care?_ asks a dark and bitter voice in the back of his mind, but he does. “You sure?”

\--

Brock almost gets up and leaves. He doesn’t want- He wasn’t even _thinking_ about them, not really. He was trying to avoid them and he thought Steve would too, but there’s something about his eyes and he almost gets up and leaves.

He wants Steve to fuck him into the mattress. He wants to hurt. He wants Steve to… He doesn’t even know. Punish him? Maybe.

But he does not want Steve Rogers’ pity.

He wants his anger and hatred and maybe even passion, maybe even something else, but not his pity. But then he continues, says he’ll do it and he’s overlooking the scars, and it’s all Brock can do but to hoarsely groan, “ _YES._ ”

\--

And Steve’s hands find Brock’s waistband this time, tugging his pants down. It’s clear Brock doesn’t want to acknowledge scars, and even through his anger, Steve can respect that.

But he’s not about to beat the shit out of a burn victim in bed.

“Tell me,” he says, sliding his hands down Rumlow’s bare thighs. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

\--

Brock is nearly panting at the fact that Steve will, that this is happening, the thing he quietly dreamed and envisioned and fantasized about it going to happen. And of course it’s tainted with a hatred so potent that Brock can’t help but love it.

He shakes his head and says, “Don’ care. Jus’ fuck me, arright? C’mon.” Don’t make him beg Steve. Not for a few more minutes, at least.

\--

Steve looks at Brock spread before him on the bed, utterly exposed and seething with hatred. It’s not the scars he’s sees now, but the total desperation in Brock’s eyes.

Through the maelstrom of thoughts in his own fevered mind, one single, clear word rises to the top: _Don’t_.

But then his fingers are at Brock’s lips and he’s working their way in. Their mouths are both reddened and swollen, almost as much as the scarring. “Suck,” he orders, almost like they’re back in STRIKE on a mission. A fucking insane, unspeakably vitriolic mission.

\--

And look, Brock may have led the STRIKE teams, may have led the Asset, but he knows how to follow orders, too. And he’s been without a purpose for a fucking year and half. He-

He sucks, and he’s desperate, needy, sucks like there’s nothing else for him to do. He’s wanted to do this for so long, and it doesn’t disappoint- Brock’s sucking is rough and feverish and needy and he stares at Steve beneath furious eyes.

\--

The feel of Brock’s mouth closed around his fingers, the heat of it, the man’s body bare and so very responsive--it makes Steve’s own body twitch, hips pressing against Brock’s thigh. Even the smoldering hatred in Brock’s eyes isn’t enough to dissuade him, and doesn’t that speak to how well and truly fucked in the head Steve’s always been?

God, he’s wanted this for an _eternity_ , and if it can’t be how he dreamed, then at least it can be this. He pulls his fingers from Brock’s mouth--the _sound_ the suction of his lips makes when it breaks, _fuck_ \--trailing the other hand down Rumlow’s chest as he settles that one between the man’s thighs.

\--

It’s hard not to be responsive. Hard to not just thrust into Steve’s hands, to beckon for Steve to throw his fingers back in his mouth for him to suck on _something_. He’s needy, but that would be a little _too_ needy, which… He can’t do that.

Not right now.

Maybe in some alternate dimension where they had a healthy relationship and Brock would feel comfortable being one hundred percent honest, but that’s not this dimension. That’s not this one where the only way the two of them can even get it up for one another is through hatred and spitting anger.

But that doesn’t mean he has to be _still_ , and he still bucks mildly and makes a _noise_ , a wanting noise that’s a mix between a moan and a growl of _just fucking do something already_.

\--

But Steve doesn’t do anything. He lets his fingers trail Brock’s ass, rests them right where he could press inside, but he stills his hand there.

He could make it hurt. He could make it hurt so badly. He’s always had the power to tear Rumlow limb from limb, and there’s a dark space inside his mind that says it would be fitting to hurt Brock as intimately as this, the perfect punishment for the way he’d broken Steve’s trust. The way he made Steve _like_ him.

But Steve won’t do that, however burning his anger. He doesn’t claim to be a good man, not anymore. A good man wouldn’t have left Bucky behind to be tortured and twisted. A good man wouldn’t _crave_ Bucky so badly he could taste it, not after all that Bucky’s been through. And a good man wouldn’t bring up the death of Jack Rollins just to make a kiss that much more hateful.

Steve isn’t a good man, but he has lines. He knows what it’s like to be weak, powerless before someone would could break him in half. And he won’t break Brock, not like this, no matter how much the man deserves it.

“You got lube?” His voice is rough and strangely steady, and not at all his own.

\--

Brock has to hold back the swearing when Steve touches him, when Steve _speaks_ , has to hold off from wiggling and moaning like a whore. He has to compose himself before he can move and twist and point to the bedside table, to the drawer and mumble something about looking in there, just hurry _up_ , Rogers.

\--

At the barely coherent admonishment, Steve lifts his hand away entirely, shifting off of Brock’s thighs to dig through the drawer. There is a bottle of lube, half-buried under other odds and ends. Steve wonders if this is from the time before, if the bedside table was something Rumlow brought with him when he fled from DC to New York. Or if he found--paid?--someone, man or woman, who’d look past the scars after everything.

It’s just a passing wonder. He doesn’t care. Whoever Brock’s been with, he’s never been pounded against a mattress by a super soldier who wouldn’t lose sleep if he vanished from the face of the Earth.

But that’s what Brock wants, the violence. The rage. Maybe the satisfaction of making Steve lose his composure.

And so Steve won’t give it to him. He pours the lube over his fingers and so slowly, so carefully, slides one in.

\--

It’s almost too much- too slow, but not waiting enough to see if Brock’s body is actually ready, just letting the lube on his finger alone do the work and get him ready, wet and open under his hands. He tries not to keen, but his body still moves, awkwardly arching his back as he tries not to pull away. He wants to leap back, get far away just as much as he wants to push closer, ride Steve’s finger to eternity but.

It’s not enough, after a while, after just one finger, and he works up a movement of his body, up and down and whatever way makes the finger feel good. He doesn’t care that he probably looks needy, is probably making a fool of himself; he’s gotten himself so worked up, so full of anger and hatred that he needs release, but to do that, to get that he needs “More, more moremoremore, _fuck_.” He hisses.

\--

Brock was never a match for Steve in sparring, even before his burns. But he was damn good in a fight, never telegraphing a move or giving anything away.

He’s nothing like that in bed, at least not now. Steve can anticipate every push, every arch, and he moves his finger just enough to brush at what Brock wants without ever making full contact. It’s not something he intends to keep up. He wants to watch Brock fall apart around him, wants to see him burn with the knowledge of what he could have had. But there’s a way to make that even sweeter, and Steve’s not above this level of revenge.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice promising reward in exchange for compliance. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

\--

Brock pushes his head back into the bed, letting out a groan and a sigh all at once. The touches that Steve gives him are tantalizing, so close to what he needs, what he wants, and he wants to push against him, demand for more, demand for him to go harder, more intense, come on come on, but then he speaks and makes his voice hard, a command, and Brock groans again.

And the question trips him up for a moment because-

In this moment of absolute vulnerability, it’s impossible to untangle the thoughts of hatred and love, so streamlined into a ball of yarn. It’s impossible to just take out the hatred and proclaim in vicious tones how much he despises Steve and wants to hurt him, wants to hurt and take away everything he loves, and forget about how much he loves him and wants to see him smile and misses his laugh and misses being his _friend_.

He _wants_ to spit out vitriolic hatred his way, red hot and painful, a searing _burn_ across his face, but what comes out is worse, is ice cold hell, a gasped and hissed, “I _hate_ you as much as I _love_ you.”

\--

The jerk of Steve’s fingers right up against Brock’s searching body is involuntary, a reflex from shock.

He tries to tell himself it’s meaningless, some spillover from ordinary pillow talk. This can’t be more than hatred manifested through the only physical outlet they can unleash without adding to Bucky’s trauma. There can’t be any feeling but vitriol behind their actions, or this is far too dangerous of a path to start down, and here in the tower of all places.

But he also knows that men are at their most honest when overcome with agony or ecstasy.

He jerks his fingers again, roughly this time, maybe enough for the pain to outweigh the pleasure. He’s not acting with malice, just scrambling to salvage this. “Don’t talk to me about _love_ ,” he spits. “Love’s a lot of things, but not betrayal. Not lying. You’re deluded.”

\--

“ _Fuck_ , probably, maybe, _shit_.” Rogers can’t honestly expect him to honestly answer these questions, start a conversation, when he’s jostling his damn finger around his ass in varying shades of pain and pleasure, each movement better than the last. Is the pain better? Or the pleasure? Brock doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, but he _does_ know he’s gonna hate the words coming out of his mouth later, when he can actually think beyond _just answer the damn man and appease him, Jesus._

So much for actively trying to annoy and enrage Rogers. He’s under his hands and at his whims and he loves it and wants it and can’t do much more than just beg for more.

“Not lying, though.” He gasps and arches his back at a particularly painful movement that makes his breath leave him and his stiff body try to bend in flexible ways he hasn’t managed since before he burned. He feels like he’s burning right now. “Just- _fuck_. Hate, love. Whatever. Fucking- The _same_ with you.”

\--

“I hate you,” Steve breathes, pressing again with his fingers. He has to stay calm, has to control himself. Or he’ll damage the man. He’ll become the worst sort of monster. This isn’t scratching whatever itch he hoped to satisfy when he lunged at Rumlow in the elevator. Was that only minutes ago? It seems like eons.

But he can’t help himself as he slides and and strokes his fingertips against Brock’s body. The words keep spilling out so steadily. He doesn’t understand what keeps his voice this still. “After what you did to Bucky, what you kept from me--I could tear you apart. I’ve never wanted anything more. And whatever you want from me--” Steve slides his fingers just that far apart, stretching Brock around him. “You’ll have to beg.”

\--

“ _Then tear me apart, Rogers._ ” Brock hisses and widens his legs, breath hitching and needy before he’s willing to utter the first word of _please_. He won’t, he won’t say it again unless Steve makes him, forces him, and makes him plead for Steve to break him, push him down to nothing but animal instinct and red hot emotion, love and hatred in one go.

\--

Steve stills his fingers instead, and if he relishes in the look that crosses Brock’s face at the lessening of sensation, well, surely he deserves that after everything.

“You think you’re in a position to make demands?” he asks, as though he isn’t aching for it himself. As if he isn’t nearly as on edge as Brock without the added stimulation of fingers up his ass.

He leans as far forward as he can without causing pain and mutters, “After everything you’ve done, you could at least say the magic word.”

\--

And oh, oh if he has to, if he’s forced to beg, then he’ll do it the way that Steve wants, the way that he probably needs at this point. Brock leans up as far as his head can, ignoring the aching pains and stretching of his body and spits “ _please_ ” with as much hate as he can. No saliva, no actual spit, but enough vitriol that there ought to be. He’s desperate, but he isn’t going to beg nicely.

\--

And Steve doesn’t _want_ him to beg sweetly. This is rage, that’s all it is. Pure hatred and aggression. It has to be, or this will feel like the ultimate hypocrisy of all he stands for, the greatest insult to Bucky’s suffering.

It would feel like betraying a lover he never had and never will.

Steve pulls his hand free none too gently. He shifts, positioning himself, the head of his cock just brushing against Brock’s body. He stills himself, biting down a moan, fighting the urge to thrust his hips forward.

“I’m not doing all the work,” he says.

\--

Brock groans and shifts himself a little, hissing, “Just fucking _start_ , fuck, _please you unholy bastard_.” He’s slow, agonizingly slow, and he just wants to be filled and squirming and speared in a physical manifestation of whatever the fuck they’re emotional relationship is. He just wants to get off and fulfill one of his dreams, wants to see where this conglomeration of love and hatred can take the two of them. And if getting off is the end destination, then Steve needs to fucking _fuck_ him.

\--

He’s tempted to wait, to force Brock to sink himself down on Steve’s cock--he has to steady himself at the thought of the sight, and doesn’t that say how far from okay this all is--but he’s not sure Rumlow has the balance to do that now, scarred and nearly shaking with need.

And Steve himself feels seconds from shooting off untouched. Which is not an option. Not in front of Brock Rumlow.

He takes another breath, grounding himself, and pushes in. It’s not fast. It’s slow enough that he bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood. But it’s forceful; he can see the jolt of the thrust through Brock’s body. Steve pulls back--not out, just back--lashes fluttering at the feel, the heat. He starts to wonder when Brock last did this, but that brings him dangerously close to memories of dead traitors he’d once considered his friends.

He can’t let himself feel sympathy, affection. _Love_. His mouth twists at that final thought.

“Tell me you hate me.” His voice isn’t steady anymore. “Tell me exactly how you planned to put me down before I fucked up all of HYDRA’s plans.”

He keeps his hips so still. He’s going to pound Brock into the mattress, but he’s going to do it slow, watch the man stammer out impotent threats and insults as he’s powerless beneath Steve. Maybe then he’ll feel catharsis.

Or have the best fucking orgasm of his life. Right now, he’s not picky.

\--

The feeling of Steve inside his body is more akin to ecstasy than hatred, but Brock gasps, “I- I hate you. Fuck, _shit_ , I hate you! I’ve h-hated- _fuck_ \- you since the moment Insight went down and you f-fucked up my life.” Just fuck him already, please, Steve, fuck him and get it over with.

It doesn’t escape him that this fucking session is like a particularly intense truth serum. Or maybe that’s just Steve Rogers. Brock just doesn’t have it in him to lie anymore. Not after years of keeping something _huge_ from him. And speaking of huge... “Just _fuck_ me, already, Jesus, Steve. F-fine, fuck, I hate you, I-I wanted to kill you myself, fuck, I _will_ fuck you up for this, _fuck_.” He doesn’t care, he doesn’t _care_ , just _fuck him._

\--

Steve thrusts again, just as slow, just as forceful. He can feel the bed beneath them shake. “I am _fucking_ you,” he says with the most loathing he can muster, which isn’t much at this point. When he slides back, he can’t contain the moan that slips from his lips, although he manages to twist it into something like a growl. “You want this? Then I’m s-setting the pace.”

He pushes forward again, and _Christ_ , Brock had better come undone quickly, because he’s not sure how much longer he can bear this. “Don’t stop. Tell me how you’ll kill me, Brock. Tell me all about your fantasies that are never going to h-happen.”

\--

Brock moans, and he’s painfully hard, cock dripping onto his stomach. He’s close, he is, and he’s not sure how much longer he can do this, how much longer he can have Steve fucking Rogers fucking into his ass before he comes . He tries to say something, anything, he doesn’t even know what, just wants to appease whatever the fuck Steve wants, but all that comes out are a stammering of mumbles and pants that just kind of… Happen.

“F-fuck, fuck I’m gonna-” pants, moan, “gonna kill if you don’t-” whine, keen “-fuck me harder, let me _come, fuck_ Rogers….”

\--

It isn’t enough. Steve wants to hear about the gun Brock would press to the base of his skull or force between bruised, bleeding lips. He wants to hear about the slice of a knife on his throat, the pain he’d feel when he’s the one on fire. Because he deserves it all, doesn’t he? To have failed Bucky, to be lowering himself to--he deserves so much more than vague threats of death.

But he’s nearly as far gone as Brock is, with the way the man’s spasming around him. He can’t contain himself, thrusting again and again. Hard as ever, but so much faster.

“Do it,” he thinks he says, but it’s nearly incoherent. “Fucking kill me.”

\--

Steve coming undone while _inside him_ shouldn’t be hot. It should be terrifying at how fucked up Steve is, how fucked up he’s letting Brock see him. But it’s arousing, and he fidgets and moans at his words, and can’t help but pant out, “You wanna kick the bucket inside me?” He thinks he says it. Everything is hazy around the edges and words and moans and noises and movements are all blurring together into a kaleidoscope of experience.

He arches upwards, sliding Steve deeper, better, to that place that makes everything go _black_ at the edges, not just hazy, and before he knows it, he’s coming, he’s whimpering and shouting and making any sort of noise as long as it’s not _human_ , as long as it’s animalistic and base, because that’s all he is right now. He’s just some animal and Steve is the other, and their lovemaking is full of hatred. It’s not a big deal.

Brock comes in stringy ropes on his own stomach, and in a last fit of self-hatred, he makes himself watch Steve, makes himself stare at Rogers the entire time, like he can immortalize the look of Steve’s desperate insanity through the sheer act of ecstasy.

\--

Steve’s vaguely aware that maybe Brock just spoke, but he has no idea what he said. He’s beyond _language_ now, beyond anything the despair and the pleasure churning inside him, inexorable. There’s movement and sensation, and that’s all he can bear to register.

And then Brock’s convulsing around him--Steve has to force himself to look and be sure it’s an orgasm, be sure he hasn’t started strangling the body beneath him without realizing--making noises Steve hardly hears over the rush of blood in his own ears, the need pulsing through his frame.

And then he follows after, the rhythm of his hips losing any sort of pattern as he thrusts again and again, coming deep and hot before he collapses on Brock, boneless, unable to even think.

\--

Brock pants and tries to regain his sense of reality, tries not to just float in that hazy space that’s so tantalizing, so happy. He can’t. He doesn’t deserve to enjoy this, not for long. He got his release, got to the point where the love and hate blended together, but now he- He-

“Git offa me.” He grunts and pushes at the giant body over him, making his limbs ache. He hasn’t orgasmed that hard in… Well, fuck. He doesn’t know, but his body is _killing_ him now; his muscles aren’t supposed to be brought taut and tense like that anymore, not with his skin so tight on his body now. He hurts and he’s sweaty and there’s a pit of something blooming in his chest as he realizes that.

That.

He proclaimed his love for Steve while the man was fingering his asshole. Steve asked- No, demanded- Brock to _murder_ him while balls deep in his ass. Brock groans and pants and tries to regain the rest of his sense of self and pushes at Steve again. He suddenly _really_ wants to hide in the bathroom.

\--

Steve acquiesces with a grunt, rolling to his side. Like they were going to _cuddle_ after this was done. He just lies there, steadying his breathing, trying to tether his mind back to his body instead of wherever he’s currently floating.

He just fucked Brock Rumlow. Just begged the man to kill him in bed. And every bit of his being should be screaming at him, but in the moment, he can’t bring himself to care. He’s not a good man. He hasn’t been a decent one since the day Bucky died, and having him back hasn’t changed that. The only reason the rest of the world doesn’t realize that is because they’re blinded by the memory of the man on those propaganda posters.

He’s content to lie there, pretending the ache of his muscles is the start of his body failing, pretending Rumlow didn’t just say that he loved Steve.

So of course that’s when the damn AI chooses to speak up. “ _Captain Rogers, Master Barnes is_ \--” He cuts himself off when the elevator audibly opens in the next room.

_Fuck._ And Tony tries to say evil computers are just in the movies.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a steady stream of expletives pouring from Brock’s mouth as he scrambles to fit himself under the blankets, giving a particularly nasty shout when such sudden movements make his body alight in _fire_. He’s disgusting, he’s aching and hurting and broken and of course, of fucking _course_ Barnes is coming up.

He doesn’t know which he’d prefer right now- The scathing hatred of Barnes, or the child. He doesn’t _know_ but he does know that he’s fucked, either way.

\--

Steve’s scrambling as well, grabbing his pants and tangling himself in the sheets as he tries to force them on. He nearly shouts at Brock to shut up when the man yells, but what does it matter? They’re fucked anyway. Brock can’t dress himself in time and even if Steve’s fully clothed by the time Bucky wanders in, what’s he supposed to say? ‘Daddy and Rumlow were having a discussion while Rumlow’s naked in bed’? Bucky knows what sex smells like anyway, at any age.

He just manages to tug his pants over his hips when he hears Bucky’s voice from the other room. “Commander?” he sounds worried. “Are you okay?”

\--

Great. It’s the kid. Thinking about it, that’s about seventy-five times worse than the adult. At least the adult version of Barnes would just sneer with derision and tell him how fucked up he is. The kid won’t, he won’t even understand why or what’s going on.

So of course he has to say “I’m. Fine. What’re you doin’ here, kid?” while come is drying sticky on his stomach, dripping out of his asshole.

\--

“I came to say sorry.” Bucky’s voice is growing nearer as Steve throws the sheets over Rumlow, stumbling off the bed and just getting the shirt over his head as Bucky appears in the doorway. Like it makes a difference. They’re both flushed and panting, hair tousled. Even if the kid doesn’t get it, Bucky’s going to.

“I didn’t mean to make you ups--Daddy, what are you doing here?” Bucky stares between the two of them, squeezing onto his bear.

“Rumlow and I left to talk,” he says. There are times he can lie without his face burning, but this isn’t one of them. “Remember?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles, but even when he’s five, he doesn’t look like he buys it.

\--

“You don’t gotta say sorry kid, I forgive you, believe you, whatever. You’re golden, uh, go play with Stark or something yeah?” He’s hiding beneath the covers, his head and neck just peeking out because he’s a mess under the sheets, filthy with come and body red and flushed.

\--

Bucky doesn’t leave. He takes a step into the room, eyebrows drawing together. “Are you okay?”

“He’s fine,” Steve says quickly, stepping forward. No way is the kid getting on that bed. Not right now. “Just tired, that’s all. You know the Commander gets tired easy. Why don’t you go see Tony and his robots while Rumlow gets some rest?”

But of course Bucky’s stationary, concern all across his face. “Do you want to hold my bear?”

\--

“Uh, you should hold your bear for now. I’m good. Just need rest.” He harumphs, though, because excuse you, he is one-hundred percent fine. Fuck. He fidgets and tries to look appropriately tired, which really, really isn’t that difficult.

\--

“Besides,” Steve says, and then fumbles mentally for any excuse to get Bucky out of the room. “Didn’t, uh, didn’t Bucky Bear need to talk to Tony? About the zombie defense plans for the tower?”

He’d wanted to kill Clint for letting the kid catch a glimpse of _Dawn of the Dead_ last week, but if it distracts him now, well, maybe they should show Bucky more horror movies.

“I guess,” Bucky says, glancing down at his bear as if for confirmation.

“Well, how about you go do that and let the Commander get some sleep? You can see him all you want once he’s rested up.”

Bucky looks at the two of them again for a long, paralyzing instant before he shrugs and turns. “Don’t be mean, Daddy,” he says, starting out of the room. “And feel better, Commander.”

He’s decided they were fighting? Of course he’s decided they were fighting; to think they were fucking would be insane. Because it is insane, all of it. Steve waits until he hears the elevator close behind Bucky before he sinks down on the foot of the bed, face buried in his hands. “ _Fuck_.”

\--

“Fucking Christ.” Brock mumbles and slams his head back into a pillow, hating every second of his miserable, shitty life right now. “Fuck. Tell the fucking AI to ask _permission_ to let the kid in, next time you’re fucking me into next week.”

\--

“ _Noted, Agent Rumlow_ ,” Jarvis says, and Steve just groans.

“Guess he didn’t want to interrupt,” he mutters, shaking his head. “ _Fuck_.”

There’s no way Bucky isn’t going to piece together what really happened. And then what? He hasn’t been exposed to healthy sex in a lifetime, and this is far from healthy. What if the kid decides his new daddy is using the Commander just like Pierce used Bucky? What if Bucky hates Steve for fucking one of his former captors?

“What the hell are we supposed to say?” he asks, unsure if it’s rhetorical. “No, Bucky, it didn’t mean anything, we just wanted to kill each other so badly it turned us on.”

\--

“Don’t tell him shit unless he asks. And don’t say that shit to him.” Brock sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He is exhausted now, and would love to just fall asleep. Potentially for forever. “ _Fuck_ , of course he had to come say sorry.”

\--

“And if he doesn’t ask? What, we just let the kid wander around maybe thinking one of us raped the other?” Steve hauls himself up. His legs feel weak with either exertion or shock, but he needs to pace. To move.

“What were--what was I _thinking_?” He asks the air, Brock little more than a footnote of the scenery in his current state of mind. “This- _here_ , where anyone could--where Bucky _did_ see. How could I? It’s not responsible, not fair to--”

He cuts himself off. Bucky’s not his lover. He never was, never will be. And it’s sick for Steve to even imagine otherwise. Look where going for the next best thing got him.

\--

Brock lets him pace and think out loud, lets him get out whatever stupid thoughts he has next, but when he cuts off, he says, “Then we don’t do it again. Easy enough, right? If you hated it _that_ fucking bad, then we don’t have sex.” Right? That’s. It should be easy. It doesn’t sound easy, but it should be.

\--

“I didn’t ha--”

Steve cuts himself off. What would he gain by saying it’s the best he’s felt in ages? It wasn’t even the sex, not entirely, though that had been beyond any dream he’d ever had when glancing at Rumlow in SHIELD’s locker rooms. It was just...the _relief_ of being able to let his mask slip for a second, allowing himself to be nowhere near okay.

“I--” Steve tries again, but the words stick in his throat, so he nods.

\--

Brock sits up and can’t help the light in his eyes, the smile, because, “Ah. It make you feel alive? Kinda? Just a little bit like you’re not sitting here _pretending_ to be a person?” He lets a grin show, sharp and mean and understanding in all the wrong ways. In all the right ways. “You _loved_ it.”

\--

“I _hate_ you,” Steve snaps, but it’s not a denial. It’s. He can’t do this right now. Fuck, he _can’t_.

“You should clean yourself up,” he says flatly. “Before Bucky comes back. Can you get out of bed without crying all over yourself, or did I take too much out of you?”

\--

The thought of moving right now is _torture_ , but he just frowns at Steve and slowly gets out of bed, ignoring the aches and pains, ignoring the lethargy of his limbs. “I’m fine. Next time, try a little harder to break me, huh?” And wow.

Next time.

A plan for the future and. Brock wants this to happen again.

Fuck.

\--

Steve wants to haul Rumlow from the bed and force him into the shower, pound him against the wall until he’s _screaming_ , if he wants a next time so badly. But he can’t. They’ve already gone too far. He has to ignore how badly he wants it, has to pretend the desire doesn’t threaten to consume him from the inside out.

“Who says there’ll be a next time?” is all he says, but it sounds weak in his own ears.

\--

“I wasn’t. But now I’m saying it. Just- We both want it. We both want release.” He smiles and has to steady himself next to the bed. Anyone else and he’d be self conscious right now, but Steve, Steve’s allowed to see him weak and broken, ugly and scarred. Steve’s allowed to make fun of him and spit scathing remarks because he deserves it.

\--

“I don’t want--” _You_. But he did, once. When Brock was the closest friend he’d had outside of the Avengers, Steve used to lie awake at night, thinking of moments when Brock leaned in so close on the Quinjet, let his leg brush against Steve’s under the table. He’d tell himself he was imagining things, that Brock was just friendly. Everyone knew how Rumlow felt for Rollins, after all.

But Rollins isn’t here anymore. And Steve will never have Bucky. And this can only end in flames, but they’re not pretending otherwise, are they?

He can’t bring himself to say yes. But he’s not saying no either.

\--

Brock waits for an answer, and when he doesn’t get one, he snorts and turns to go to the bathroom. He feels disgusting now. What was hot a moment ago is disgusting and smelly and he wants to wash it off. He’s almost, even, considering taking a hot shower, which is so rare these days, so strange to even think of. Maybe the fucking really did help.

\--

Steve watches him retreat to the bathroom, sees his own come on the man’s thighs, and has to fight the sudden, damnable urge to follow him and--what? Sweep him off his feet? Join him under the showerhead? This isn’t that kind of story.

He should go to his own bathroom, clean himself up, and then come back here so they can plan what they’ll say to Bucky, because there’s just no way they can’t say anything.

But he lingers, not leaving, not following. Just. There.

\--

Brock turns the shower head on and steps in, sighing and trying not to flinch at the heat. Stark’s showers heat up ridiculously fast, he’s noticed, and there’s been a few times he’s had to flee, because he hadn’t been prepared and it brought back memories. But right now it feels wonderful, amazing, and he only peeks out because Steve hasn’t left.

“What, you just gonna stand there and then say hi to your kid sweaty and smellin’ like sex?” He asks, rolling his eyes as he pushes his hair out of his eyes.

\--

“What should I be doing?” Steve asks, all his frustration, anger, and self-loathing boiling over as he turns to the bathroom door. “Is that an invitation?”

\--

“Well, if you’re not gonna go to _your_ shower, then you might as well use mine.” His voice is finally filled with the exact uncaring derision that he lost an hour ago, a sneer close to follow.

\--

And Steve just pulls his shirt off and steps onto the cool tile of the bathroom floor. Contrasted with the fevered rush of emotions still permeating his body, it feels almost unnaturally cold. If Rumlow’s going to treat this as a joke, a triviality, fine. Steve can do the same thing.

That was the trick to exposing yourself, Steve had once heard one of the art school models explain to another student. If you pull off your robe and you panic, everyone can see it like a shark sniffs out blood. But if you don’t care, nobody else does either.

And for a second, sliding into the shower behind Rumlow, Steve doesn’t care about anything. He lets the hot water flood over him, tilts his face into the spray, as though water can wash away the mess his life has become. But then he’s adjusted to the heat and he’s right back where he started, with nothing but water circling the drain.

**\------**

Steve pulls one of Brock’s shirts over his head, surprised the fabric doesn’t rip as it stretches over his shoulders or as he eases it down. Why are all of Brock’s shirts so flimsy? Is that all he can afford? Does it feel better over his scarring? Or does he just want to prove that there’s still muscle definition beneath his injuries?

Steve shakes his head. The last thing he wants to think about now is Brock’s abs. Not after what Bucky nearly walked in on. Not after the shower, when they’d already been sated once and they should have fucking known better.

“ _Captain Rogers_ ,” Jarvis says, as delicately as a machine can. “ _Master Barnes is returning_.”

Steve glances at Brock from the corner of his eye, his face flushing with embarrassment rather than exertion now. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what. Something apologetic? Self-deprecating? Compassionate?

But all he can force out, harsher than he intended, is “Don’t upset Bucky.”

\--

“Don’t plan to.” Brock mutters, even though he’s cursing inwardly. He hides _that_ particular facial expression, though, while he pulls his own shirt over his head, something long sleeved to hide the way his scars and body are red and vibrant, harsher than usual after fucking twice with the tank that is Steve Rogers.

“Though, you should tell you kid to ‘fuck off’, kindly of course, so we don’t have to deal with this shit.” He snorts, to at least _try_ and show Steve that he’s not exactly serious. He’s trying, he’s _trying_ to pretend things are normal, but it’s obvious now that there’s no such thing as normal when it comes to their relationship or in the way they interact.

\--

He knows the words are joking, but he’s still nearly spitting with anger, stopped only by the soft swish of the elevator doors opening again.

“Daddy?” Bucky’s voice, so soft that Steve wonders if Rumlow can even hear him. “Are you still here?”

It takes him a second to find his voice, scrambling for words as his mind and heart race. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse, talking to the kid. “Yeah, Buck. I’m here, buddy. What do you need?”

Bucky doesn’t walk as much as he shuffles into the room. He’s holding on tight to his bear, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and his head is tilted down. But his eyes are looking up, boring into both of them. And his expression, while confused and hesitant, isn’t oblivious.

He knows.

Steve isn’t sure if he stopped regressing when last he left, or if he knew all along. The implications of Bucky’s words before leaving the last time-- _Don’t be mean, Daddy_ \--strike him suddenly, and it’s all Steve can do not to be sick. Maybe Bucky hadn’t thought they were fighting at all. Maybe he meant ‘Don’t be cruel to Rumlow like Pierce was to me.’

And isn’t that just what he’s done? Used Rumlow because he can’t get what he really wants? Steve tastes bile in his mouth.

Bucky turns his eyes away from Steve, focusing on Rumlow as he finally speaks. “Are you going to be my daddy now too?”

\--

The release of breath in the room is instantaneous, a form of tension dropping down, and Brock can feel himself stammering out a quick, “Uh, yeah, sure kid-” before stopping as his brain catches up with his mouth and he realizes he was _agreeing_ with the brain-fucked five year old.

Which. Shit.

But, it’s better than telling the kid ‘fuck no,’ which would have qualified as ‘mean’ according to Rogers, so after he forces the heat in his face to calm down and his gaze to look away from Bucky, he twists his lips in the approximation of a smirk, trying to appear like he’s _calm_ and _collected_ and _absolutely okay with this_ and looks at Steve, raising an eyebrow, trying to convey the epitome of ‘Am I, Steve? His daddy?’

\--

And Steve just stares. Just looks at Rumlow and tries not to wrap his hands around the bastard’s scarred neck. The seconds are ticking by in silence. He has to reply or Bucky will start to worry.

So Steve, still meeting Rumlow’s eye, so calmly says, “Yeah, you are.”

Steve may have made this bed, but he’ll be damned if Rumlow’s not going to lie in it beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> Check us out on Tumblr: [Lauralot](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com) and [ravenously.](http://buckycurtis.tumblr.com)


End file.
